The Mouth of Sauron
by Avelera
Summary: What if the Mouth of Sauron was actually Aragorn's long lost brother? Kidnapped as a child then raised at Baraddur, the Mouth of Sauron finally meets his younger brother on the opposite side of the battle fieled. HIATUS
1.

The Mouth of Sauron  
  
Disclaimer: All the characters in this belong to JRR Tolkien except for Anariel and Arador II before he grows up. The plot is also mine.  
  
A/N: This is by far the most unusual plot I have ever come up with. It came to me while I was listening to the song 'Simon' by Lifehouse. Your basic long-lost-sibling fic but with a twist. By the way, I know that the MoS was actually a black Numenorean but this is AU (Alternate Universe). Also I state in the text that he replaced the last one which means that the MoS isn't immortal, every time he dies a new one is chosen. Enjoy! :D  
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Account of the Death of Arathorn II and Kidnapping of Arador II  
  
Arador I was still king of the Dúnedain when at the age of 47, in the year 2920, his son Arathorn II was wed to Anariel, elder daughter of Dírhael. The marriage was short lived, for a year after they were wed Anariel died giving birth to Arador II, heir to the Dúnedain. For nine years Arathorn raised his son and saw to his duties as a prince until in the year 2930 the younger daughter of Dírhael, Gilraen, was married young to Arathorn. She loved her nephew and stepson Arador as if he were her own. Soon after their marriage King Arador I was slain by trolls, making Arathorn II the new King of the Dúnedain and his son Arador II the heir. The following year their son Aragorn II, King Elessar, was born securing the next generation of kings.  
  
It was the 25th day of Lothron when disaster struck the house of Arathorn. Arador II had come to an age where he was to begin his education in the ways of the Rangers of the North. As he and his father rode out, accompanied by 25 men, they were suddenly ambushed by a small party of orcs. The orcs were easily beaten but it wasn't until the battle was over and the last of the survivors fled that King Arathorn realized with horror that his son was nowhere to be seen, nor was his body to be found amongst the dead. So great was his fury at the apparent kidnapping that barely a day had past when Arathorn assembled 100 men as well as the aid of the sons of Elrond to ride out in search of the orc band that had stolen the child away. They soon overcame the party, so fast were the steeds upon which they rode, only to discover a band ten times larger then the one before. During the battle Arathorn II was slain with an orc arrow through the eye. There was no trace of the child Arador.  
  
Gilraen then took sanctuary in Rivendell with her son, Aragorn, where he was raised to eventually become the King of Gondor. Since then the fate of the Arador II has never been discovered.   
  
  
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"He is your brother," whispered the faceless woman quietly in his ear as to not wake the child. The ten year old boy looked up at her in wonderment then down again at the newborn lying peacefully in the cradle. He gently reached out and touched the baby's brow then turned back to the woman in fear that he had done something wrong. The woman smiled gently and nodded, the boy turned back and delicately stroked the baby's face.  
  
"He doesn't look much like Father," the boy commented.  
  
The woman laughed, "Not yet, but someday he will. And someday when you are a man doing great deeds, he will be at your side." Suddenly the baby opened his eyes and began crying. Making gentle shushing noises the woman lifted him from the cradle and began rocking him gently. "Hush, little Aragorn, your father will be home soon," She indicated to a servant that it was time to nurse the baby and the boy was led from the room.  
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The clash of battle woke the Mouth of Sauron from his reverie. Below him on the field that tides of war swept back and forth between the armies of the West and those of Mordor. Crimson fountains erupted where men and orcs alike fell beneath each other's blades. At the back of their company he could see the White Fool, called Gandalf, watching from afar; at his side stood the self-proclaimed King of Gondor. The Mouth of Sauron sneered to himself. The fools still thought they had a chance against Sauron the Great. The inspiration they gained upon slaying the Witch King failed under their horror at seeing their spy's possessions in his grasp. A shiver of pleasure flowed down his spine as he remembered how their faces had gone gray with horror and even the great Istari had quailed. His mood darkened again with the memory of the humiliation that followed.  
  
The fighting was coming to a fevered pitch and the Mouth of Sauron cursed that he was not among them, feeling the blood-lust rising. He barked a command for his horse to be brought. While the remaining orcs ran fearfully to and fro he contemplated the day-dream that had just visited itself upon him.  
  
Only a few times since he had first replaced the old Mouth of Sauron nearly 80 years ago had he had that dream. It played with him, tugging at his memory as if it was trying to make itself heard yet something stood in the way. He felt that he should know the woman and the child and the father... sometimes he could almost picture the father, his black hair flying free in the wind, his gray eyes flashing. Yet parts of the dream eluded him. What had been the name of the child? Why could he not remember the mother's face?  
  
He could remember having no other identity except the Mouth of Sauron. But why? Even the meanest goblin had its own name, its own identity yet he was but a continuation of an office. He shook his head angrily. Such thoughts had not entered his head in decades and he would not allow them to here, on the very day of their victory.   
  
A man, one of the line of the Black Numenoreans, came with the fell horse in hand. The Mouth grabbed its halter viciously and swung himself astride, the horse reared. He dug the iron spurs hard into its side and charged for the open gate, singing of blood and victory as he rode.   
  
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At the back of his own army Aragorn also realized the battle was reaching its peak, and the tides were turning against them. Sparing Gandalf a glance over his shoulder he brandished Andúril and rode into the fray.   
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That was the first chapter of this fic. Is the Mouth of Sauron really Aragorn's half-brother? Will either of them find out? Stay tuned for more! Oh, and please review. This is my first LotR fic and I need a reason to continue this fic. I hate to say this but it's gonna take at least five before I get another chapter up. 


	2. 

The Mouth of Sauron: Chapter 2

Disclaimer: see chapter 1.  
  
A/N: Well, here's the seconds chapter. Hopefully longer and more interesting then the last (which I am frankly ashamed of) and certainly more action-packed and gory. Beware, when I say gory I mean GORY, you might want to ask the kids to leave the room.

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The Mouth of Sauron weaved in and out of the advancing trolls, cutting down every Westerner that came in his path. Blood splattered against his face and dripped from his sword. He ran his tongue along the outside of his mouth, feeling an odd zinging pleasure at the hot salty taste of blood. A Gondorion tried to attack him from behind with a short bow. The Mouth felt it buzz past his ear and with a snarl he rounded on the man who barely had time to drop the bow before his horse trampled him into a bloody smear on the ground.  
  
"My lord!" an orc called to him in heavily accented Common. The Mouth of Sauron rounded on him, sword held high for the killing stroke. The orc dodged instinctively only to hear the blade whistle and descend upon another Gondorion who stood not a foot behind him. His legs crumpled beneath him as his skull was split. Brain mattered spattered on to the first orc which he wiped away with a shaky hand. "My lord, we have captured one of those filthy Men from the white tower," he snarled then blanched slightly as he realized his error. The Mouth was after all, a Man.  
  
"Kill him," the Mouth of Sauron spat.  
  
"But he's in important among them, a king! The Master himself is after this one!"  
  
The Mouth of Sauron growled deep in his throat, debating whether he should appoint the task to another or whether the situation was important enough to warrant his personal attention.  
  
"Lead on," he commanded in a voice fit to chill the coldest winter day. The orc knuckled his forehead again and reached to take the halter of the horse. The Mouth of Sauron wrenched the reins away before the orc could touch them "Do you wish to kill me?" the Mouth said even more coldly then before but underneath was an ocean of white hot rage, "If you lead the beast I will be a sitting target. Now, take me to the hostage."  
  
They made their way through the battlefield, occasionally dodging a locked battle between an orc and a Man. The Mouth's battle lust raged at him to rejoin the fray but calling on his inherent coldness he squashed the flaming desire. His face took on an icy cast and it was a wonder that everything within a span of him was not frozen from the gaze he swept across it.  
  
Passing over a small ridge they left the battle behind them. In a small blackened dip, a ring of orcs surrounded a Man sprawled on the ground before them, watching him as if he would leap up and bite off all their heads. The Mouth sneered at them. This one posed no threat. Riding to the edge of their huddle he dismounted his horse, tossing the reins to the nearest orc without glancing at him. "Make way!" he shouted over the din of the battle behind them. Shoving two orcs out of his way he glared down at the apparently unconscious Man before him.  
  
"You're faking," he said curtly, "Get up."  
  
The Man struggled to rise as if he had indeed been stunned but climbed to his feet with dignity that belied it, trying to inconspicuously feel for his sword which lay on the other side of the ring of orcs. His back straightened and he stood proudly before the Mouth of Sauron, looking him straight in the eye.  
  
Those eyes, the Mouth mused to himself. The same eyes he saw in the vision of the dark, statuesque man leaning defiantly into the wind. The same eyes he saw when he looked in the mirror. "Who are you?" He asked, though he already knew. Perhaps more then he thought he did.  
  
The other man looked him up and down, his face a stony mask hiding all emotion, "I am called Strider."  
  
"Liar," the Mouth of Sauron spat in his face. "You are Aragorn, a play-king to those fools in Minas Tirith." The Man said nothing only his face became harder, more stone-like. The Mouth resisted the urge to flinch, yet he had stared down much harder gazes before.  
  
"I have also been called Aragorn, servant of Sauron, yet to you and your master I am Elessar."  
  
"Truly, 'Elfstone', you are braver then you should be in this situation," the Mouth said.  
  
"I do not fear death, nor the Shadow's foul slaves," Aragorn said, not a flicker across his face to prove his words false. The Mouth of Sauron smiled as if at a private joke and a cruel one at that.  
  
"You hold no fear of death but what I bring is far worse. The Dark Lord would like to meet in person that Man who dared pit his will against the rightful ruler of Middle-Earth."  
  
Finally a reaction. A brief spasm of what could have been panic flashed on the would-be king's face and his hand clenched. "Never. I Aragorn, son of Arathorn, will allow the Shadow to take me when all that is left is ashes and dust."  
  
Arathorn... the name flickered across his conscious like a comet then vanished, leaving a sort of after-image burned into his mind. Something about Arathorn. Shaking his head in effort to clear his thoughts he glanced once more at the proud Man before him drawing his sword with a hiss. Without thinking he pivoted, his black sword flashing in the sun, and drove it deep into the throat of the orc behind him. Two orcs who had stood adjacent to the first glanced at each other, fear wild in their eyes, and bolted over the hillside. The momentary distraction this provided for the Mouth was enough for the other orcs to close their gaping jaws.  
  
"Traitor!" a large uruk howled in Black Speech, flinging himself at the Mouth of Sauron. The Mouth slashed and parried, dancing away from the savage thing before swinging into full offensive, slashing high and low, each time met with a more desperate parry. The orc howled again, this time in shock and pain as the black blade cut through his chain mail and buried itself to the hilt in its broad chest. It gurgled, clawing desperately at the steel protruding from its chest. The Mouth of Sauron kicked the corpse hard in the stomach, slipping it off the blade then spinning to meet the next attack as another pair of orcs gathered the courage to attack their traitorous leader. But the sight of their fallen comrade put fear into their hearts, slowing their clubs and swords. A dagger crunched between the eyes of the first and he fell without taking another step. The other made the mistake of glancing down at his fellow. The mistake was his last as the sword snaked up under his chain mail shirt sticking into his lower belly hitting its upper spine. Three orcs remained staring across at him. He casually reached down and wiped his blade dripping with blood and gore on the pant leg of the first orc then smiled at them, revealing all his teeth. Their nerve broke. Two of them ran to either side of him. He ignored them, advancing of the center one, skirting the passive Aragorn who had watched the entire battle but had lent no hand to either side. The Mouth of Sauron brought his black sword up into the defending position. Fire raked the side of his arm drawing a deep gash that instantly began to swell with black blood. The orc stared as his knife wobbled in the ground just behind the lieutenant of Barad-dur, obviously horrified that it had missed the heart. This was the last thing the orc ever saw as the Mouth hefted his sword in his good arm and flung it end over end, impaling the orc and pinning it to the ground. The orc whimpered and lay still.  
  
The Mouth of Sauron lurched over to the corpse; planting his foot firmly on its chest dragged the blade downward out of its stomach. A fountain of blood spurted from the wound, joining the gore that already covered the front of his armor and staining his arms up to the elbow. A low murmur of agony bubbled out of the fallen orc, obviously not dead yet. The Mouth roughly dragged his blade across its throat. More blood bubbled and the orc finally lay still. The Mouth bent to wipe his blade on the grass then slid it back into its sheath. Turning on his heels he found himself face-to-face with Aragorn, his eyes like chips of ice, Andúril flaming in his hand. The Mouth of Sauron reached to draw his sword again but was stopped by the tip of Aragorn's sword held an inch from his throat.  
  
Looking him up and down but keeping the sword steady at his throat Aragorn said, "You are a strange man, lieutenant of the Dark Tower. You defended me by killing those orcs yet you serve Sauron. You are a savage fighter yet you utilized sword forms that I myself have use, taught to me by the Rangers of the North. It is said you are a Black Numenorean yet I could use your face to shave. Yes, a strange man."  
  
The Mouth of Sauron threw back his head and laughed- a sharp and coarse sound. "Defend you? No, never defend you. You have done something that no Man or orc has done to me in the last decade. You have made me curious. Curious, for what man is he who sets my mind so aflame with questions that I betray the trust of my own men to satisfy my curiosity?" lightning quick he ducked under Aragorn's horizontal blade, coming up at his back, sword drawn. "Fight me, Elessar. Satisfy my curiosity and perhaps you will escape what my lord and master has in store for you."

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A/N: More coming soon. Please review, if you don't I have no way of knowing what's good and bad OR how many people have read it. Those things mean a lot to me.

For in-depth information on future updates delete the spaces from the link below or you can find it on my author page.

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